torch, November 1998
flambeau@strangeplaces.net

Disclaimer: Bah. A moment with Krycek in the Forlorn hope universe. Takes place before Under cover and Sheltered life and definitely well before Deserted. Yes, I know I seem to be writing this series backwards. Do not archive this story without permission.

Induction

Darkness without, forty naked watts within, and not enough energy to turn the light off. This was supposed to hone his skills for some new mission, sharpen his edges, leave him hungry and eager. What it left him was limp as a noodle. Alex Krycek lay on a thin, uncomfortable mattress, stared up at a white ceiling, and breathed.

He didn't resent the man in charge of his training for being a sadistic moron. Being a sadistic moron was probably a requirement for getting the job. Tomorrow, Alex told himself, he was going to run faster, hit harder, think circles around the bastard. Tonight, just staying conscious was probably enough of a challenge.

Four days to go. Four days, and then he could get some decent food. Get something to drink that wasn't water. Get laid. His cock twitched at the thought, a pulse of blood and interest despite his exhaustion. Yeah, some of that would be nice, a warm wet mouth, a tight ass. He lifted one hand, with an effort, rubbed slowly over the growing bulge in his sweatpants.

Jesus, he was too tired for this, really. But bits and pieces of suggestive fantasy were starting to move in his head, filling his mind with images a lot more appealing than this barren room and its cobwebby corners.

Alex shifted on the mattress with muted sensuality. It was hard to choose one fantasy over another; it had to be one that would fit his present state, too. Vigorous action on his part would be a turn-off. He lingered over the selection as if choosing a dessert from a menu full of delicacies. There were classics, memories of hot nights in the past, and hot days... that truck driver, somewhere in Arizona... blisters on his palms later from the hood of the car.

When he closed his eyes he saw a face from his recent studies; the file was lying on the rickety chair over by the door. Truculent eyes, great mouth. Alex grinned. You're going to like me, he promised quietly. You're going to like me so much, you'll get down on your knees and suck me. Swear to God. He slipped his hand in under the sweatpants and touched cool fingers to warm flesh, stroked himself efficiently, fast but not too fast. Yeah, that would be something. Close surveillance, nothing like it. Let me fuck your mouth and I'll be your best friend.

The images wouldn't quite grow clear; his inner vision was full of static. Alex rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock and thought about fucking. There had been that kid during the months in South America, claiming to be eighteen, experienced, and free of disease. Well, two out of three, and a howl like a banshee on drugs when he came, which drove everyone crazy and made Alex laugh. A perfect ass, and a constant willingness to be bent over the nearest available bed or chair or table or trash can or Jeep seat and get fucked, as fast and as hard as Alex cared to make it. Alex had given him a couple of expensive habits, the best sex of his short life, and ten thousand American dollars, but he couldn't remember the kid's name.

Stroking faster, he thought, to hell with fantasies, he wanted reality. Wanted to make a few more good memories. He came in silence, rubbed half-heartedly at the mess with a corner of the sheet. There would be a cold shower in the morning. But as soon as he got out of here, there was going to be a hell of a lot more than that.

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